Our first morning in the UK was brighter, a communal breakfast taken in the conservatory and garden, bunkhouse style in the way everyone clubbed together. I still felt like shit, my usual reaction to long haul flights, but Maz and I had been woken by our daughter at about seven, Maz pretending to be asleep even after a prod from the girl. I understood why when LC finally turned to me for permission.

“Dad?”

“Yes, love?”

The slightest of twitches from her, and then that surge of confidence, or maybe hope, that warmed my heart.

“Can I play with the dogs again?”

I bolted from the scene, propelled not by a plan but by sheer instinct, my heart hammering in my chest. One moment, I was immersed in a discussion with a client about the intricacies of investment portfolios, dissecting market trends over carefully plated teriyaki salmon. The next, chaos erupted—a steel blade sliced through my meal, sending chunks of fish and grains of rice flying across the table like the aftermath of a violent crime. The clinking of silverware ceased abruptly, and my drink cascaded over my lap, a sticky reminder of the tumult around me.